


Ratatoskr

by oneiriad



Category: Norse Religion & Lore, Vikings (TV)
Genre: Crack, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-05
Updated: 2015-04-05
Packaged: 2018-03-21 08:33:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,252
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3685446
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oneiriad/pseuds/oneiriad
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Athelstan never had any reason to think he was anything but human. Then he dies, and realizes that wasn't the case.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ratatoskr

**Author's Note:**

> **Disclaimer:** Vikings does not belong to me. I'm just playing.  
>  **A/N:** written for an anon prompt.

_Ratatosk is the squirrel who there shall run_  
_On the ash-tree Yggdrasil;_  
_From above the words of the eagle he bears,_  
_And tells them to Nithhogg beneath._  
\- Grímnismál

He comes awake slowly, the last tendrils of the dream fading from his reach far too soon for his liking. He stretches, expecting to feel the soft moss of his nest against his paws.

Except he doesn’t.

He’s on his feet even before he has opened his eyes, ears pricking forward in alarm, because this is not his nest, this is - a paw. He’s been curled up in the great, furless paw of a two-leg and it’s looking down at him with just one eye, and there’s a raven sitting on the two-leg’s shoulder, looking at him with far too much interest in those glittering eyes…

He squeaks and jumps without really looking where he’s going, though he’s immensily grateful for the feel of bark - familiar bark - under his paws, and he scales the ash easily, if perhaps a little slower than usually, but he blames that on the strange urge he keeps having, as if it would be more sensible to get up on his hindlegs and run like that instead of doing things the proper way.

He hides behind a branch heavy with leaves and glances nervously down at the two-leg.

Fortunately, the beast and its raven soon seems to decide that there are other, far more interesting things to do than hunt a little squirrel.

For a while, he stays where he is, watching the spot where they stood, alert - until hunger reminds him of more important matters. Up, he thinks to himself, up high, and so he climbs.

High and high, until the leaves are beneath him, and the eagle before him, a small mountain of nuts and acorns at its feet. It glares at him, yellow-eyed, and squawks angrily, making him freeze - but then the hawk on its head leans down to peck at it, distracting it, and he dares to dart forward and partake of the bounty.

Once his immediate hunger has been sated, he settles down to listen as the eagle squawks and beats its wings and acts most dramatically, though the hawk rarely bothers to distract it, except when its about to be dislodged from its comfortable perch.

Finally, having taken an uncommonly long time, the eagle is done.

The journey down always seems longer than the journey up. Down it goes, down and down into the dark and the fire - no, not fire, why would it be fire? - down into the cold, through the tiny hole at the tree’s base and then running through the tunnel, the long, long root under his paws.

Eventually the root leads it into a lair, dank and dark and familiar.

The dragon rolls over and releases the root tendril its been gnawing on to yawn at him, lazily. Then it slides closer, serpent-like, feathers rustling and bones clicking. He sits completely still as it reaches out a huge claw and envelops him, raising him and tilting its head, considering him with one huge slitted eye, then - and this is unheard of, almost enough to make him squeak in indignation - it licks him with that forked tongue of its.

Having apparently finished indulging in whatever strange, unnatural desire to taste him has suddenly possessed it, the dragon deposits him by a small pile of mushrooms and oh - is that an egg? how lovely - and waits for him to have had a taste before snorting impatiently.

It feels ridiculous, this jumping about, waving his paws and squeaking - it feels almost as if there ought to be a better way, an _easier_ way to do this - something, something simple, something - but it’s as out of his reach as last night’s dream.

Eventually, the dragon rumbles, beats its wings and slams its tail into the side of the lair, snorting and scratching at the ground. He watches attentively, gnawing on a mushroom.

If possible, the dragon takes even longer than the eagle. What is wrong with the pair of them today?

Eventually, he climbs back up, high and high, until he finds his nest, warm and soft and nice - and he checks twice to make absolutely certain that this is in fact his nest before settling down.

The next morning he halfway expects to find himself back in the two-leg’s paw.

He is not.

And so the days fall into their familiar rhythm, and his eagle and his dragon soon settle down and limit themselves to their usual dramatics, and his puzzlement at their odd behaviour fades.

The sun rises. The sun sets. Leaves unfold, are eaten by the grazing deer and goat and grow anew.

Life goes on.

Then, one day, there is a two-leg standing by the ash tree.

This in itself is hardly an uncommon occurance. Two-legs are often by the tree. Why has sometimes puzzled him - it’s not like they make a habit of climbing it and he’s never seen them eat a single leaf - but as long as they stay on the ground and aren’t getting in the way when he needs to descend into the earth, he rarely spares them any further thoughts.

But there’s something about this two-leg.

It’s almost as if it’s - he’s - watching him.

And so, in turn, he finds himself stopping on a fairly low-hanging branch and watches him in turn.

Even for a two-leg, he looks odd, he thinks. He’s missing half the meager fur the poor things have to cover their heads and his bared skin is colored like leaves and berries and rich, black soil.

The two-leg walks closer and he ought to dart away, but something makes him sit still, something he can’t quite remember, like a long-forgotten dream. It raises a paw, stretches it towards him, and still he does not run.

He must have gone mad.

The touch is as gentle as the dragon’s claws - far softer, in fact, merely a slide down the fur of his back and his tail.

It is, come to think of it, quite pleasant.

Perhaps that’s why he daringly leaps onto the back of the two-leg’s paw.

Or perhaps it’s the madness. Or perhaps he ate something bad yesterday? Some of those mushrooms from the dragon - long and thin ones - he had found himself hesitating before eating, though why he could not say.

The two-leg makes a strangled, incomprehensible noise - _Athelstan?!_ \- and raises its paw too quickly, making him dig in with his tiny claws as he is brought up to stare into eyes as blue as the sky above the ash.

A blink breaks the spell and he tilts his head, considering, then leaps - latching on to the skin-above-skin on the two-leg’s chest - because apparently yes, he has gone quite mad, utterly and completely - and then he climbs, nosing at the strange, glittering thing dangling from its neck, odd and angular and harder than a nut when he tries to bite it.

Then resumes climbing until he finds himself on the two-leg’s shoulder, ignoring the way the other is trying to angle its head to watch him without dislodging him in the process.

Then he curls up right at the crook of the neck and makes a pleased little noise, because mad or not, there is something right about this place, as right as his nest or a fine tasting nut or a - he’s not quite sure, but it’s something _right_ and _his_ and he thinks he’s been missing it.


End file.
